THE 

HAPPY    TEACHER 


BY 


MELVILLE    B.    ANDERSON 


GIFT  OF 

erf  I  3  0  0 


THE    HAPPY    TEACHER 


THE 

HAPPY    TEACHER 


BY 

MELVILLE   B.   ANDERSON 


NEW   YORK 
B.    W.    HUEBSCH 

1910 


Copyright,  1910, 
BY  B.  W.  HUEBSCH 


TO 
THE    MEN    AND   WOMEN   WHO 

WERE    MY    STUDENTS 
AND    THROUGH    WHOM    I   WAS    A    LEARNER 

MDCCCLXXVII— MCMX 


AUTHOR'S    NOTE 

THIS  poem  was  read  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Society  at  Leland  Stanford  Junior  University, 
May  21,  1910,  at  which  time  the  author  com 
menced  emeritus. 


THE  HAPPY  TEACHER 


WHO  is  the  Happy  Teacher?— Represent 
In  his  dimensions  like  himself,  O  Muse, 
His  very  effigy,  his  lineament 
Essential:   yet,  as  painters  ever  use, 
Portray  the  happy  guide  of  noble  youth 
Ideally, — that  is  with  inward  truth! 

Thus  without  due  premeditance 
Invoking  with  rash  utterance 
The  Muse  (presumptuous  son  of  Earth, 
Daring  to  summon  as  a  slave 
The  Goddess  of  celestial  birth!  ), 
I  head  my  pinnace  to  the  wave; 
But,  look  you!   not  a  zephyr  blows 
To  clear  us  from  the  lee  of  prose: 
[9] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


"Be  brisk  there,  hearties,  man  the  oar, 
And  make  a  shift  to  pull  off  shore! " 

Lo!  scarcely  under  steerage-way, 
I  feel  a  presence  at  the  prow, — 
A  thrilling  voice  commands  me  "Stay! " 
We  drop  the  oars,  our  heads  we  bow. 
"Follow,"  the  Goddess  bids,  "the  trace 
Of  him  who  utter 'd  nothing  base; 
Let  Wordsworth  be  thy  pilot,  for 
He  sang  the  Happy  Warrior." 

"Be  it  far  from  thee  to  advise 
Me  emulate  that  lofty  song, 

0  Muse! — What  verse-craft  could  dis 

guise 

My  fragile  foil'd  against  his  strong? 

Ah!  cap  and  bells  should  crown  th*  em 
prise. 

1  cannot  string  Ulysses'  bow, 

My  grasp  too  weak,  my  reach  too  low." 
[10] 


HOW  TO   FOLLOW   WORDSWORTH 

The  Muse's  answer  how  rehearse 

In  rime  thus  unheroic? — Terse 

And  stern  to  this  effect  she  spake: 

"What  boots  it  weigh  the  form  of  verse? 

Doth  not  the  soul  the  body  make? 

Deep  counsel  with  thy  Spirit  take! 

Thence  streams  the  right  afflatus,  — storm 

Of  living  utterance:  for  form 

(Her  voice  was  edged  with  some  disdain) 

If  any  poet  there  remain 

Yet  uninform'd  with  instinct, — well, 

Let  him  aspire  to  doggerel! " 

The  message, — if  a  little  tart 
Tonic  the  more, — I  take  to  heart; 
With  trembling  hand  I  string  the  lyre, 
And,  prompted  by  that  sneer,  aspire: 
Touchstone  will  chuckle,  if  he  hark  it, 
"Right  butterwomen's  rank  to  market! " 

Beginning,  plunge  we  if  you  please, 
As  Horace  bids,  in  medias  res,  — 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


Words  signifying  Quite  at  random, 
As  easy  writers  understand  'em; 
And  if  we  treat,  not  as  we  ought  to, 
Of  what  the  Happy  Teacher  '11  not  do, 
The  Muse  may  later  bid  us  pen  her 
A  rime  less  negative  in  tenor. 

He  will  not  break  the  bruised  reed 
Which  feebly  lifts  its  little  spire; 
Nor  will   he    quench  the  smoking 

flax 

Where  Genius  yet  may  burst  to  fire; 
The  hungry  he'll  not  underfeed, 
Weak  appetite  not  overtax. 

He  will  not  strive  to  loose  or  bind 
The  bands  that  starr'd  Orion  wove; 

Precept  may  shake,  not  sever  these 
Ethereal  cables  knit  with  love: 
Sweet  influences  of  the  mind 
Immortal  as  the  Pleiades. 

[12] 


FUNDAMENTALS 


Counter  to  Mother  Nature's  course 
Task  not  the  heart,  nor  cudgel  brain 

Genial  propensity  to  quell; 
Thou'lt  have  thy  labor  for  thy  pain: 
Inevitable  thy  remorse, 

O  sire  of  Richard  Feverel! 

His  basic  principle  thus  flows 
When  set  to  music;  but  to  those 
Who  treat  the  soul  as  a  machine, 
Small  reason  in  the  rime  is  seen. 
Their  schools  and  systems,  all  and  some, 
Seem  founded  on  the  axiom 
That  gear  of  clock-work  can  direct 
The  engine  of  the  intellect. 
They  deem,  like  alchemists  of  old, 
To  find  in  their  retorts  the  gold, 
Blind  to  the  true  transmuting  stone, 
Only  to  Nature's  bantlings  known. 
The  spirit  bloweth  and  is  still: 
Come,  harness  it  to  turn  our  mill! 

[13] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


No  teacher,  but  mechanic  tool, 
Who,  when  the  angel  moves  aright 
The  waters  of  Bethesda's  pool, 
Would  thermograph  them  by  some  rule 
Of  Reaumur  or  Fahrenheit. 

Our  happy  Guide,  of  Socrates' 
Athletic  school,  distrusts  degrees.  > 
Why  dub  the  graduated  ass 
Whose  ne  plus  ultra  is  to  pass, 
Honorificabilitudinitas  ? 
O  runner,  fling  aside  the  crutch! 
Is  his  monition;  overmuch 
Our  Capuan  schools  abound  in  aids, 
Diplomas,  titles,  badges,  grades: 
Why  titillate  with  bait  so  slight 
The  hungry  edge  of  appetite? 
Why  tempt  the  torpid?     Fat  of  rib 
Is  fat  of  wit:  shut  up  the  crib! 

When  from  the  mint  the  gold  of  Burns, 


FRIPPERY 


Crisp  with  the  guinea-stamp,  returns, 

The  gold's  the  gold,  we  understand, — 

Yet  how  the  better  for  the  brand? 

When  did  promotion  come  to  knowledge 

From  furbelows  an1  ounce  at  college? 

Amid  the  courtiers  glittering 

Stood  rusty  Franklin  less  a  king? 

To  boys  leave  bagatelles!     Pray,  what 

Avail'd  the  doctor's  hood  to  Watt? 

If,  pamper'd  like  an  Oxford  don, 

The  cause  that  made  him  lean  forgone, 

And  dubb'd  D.  D.,  how  more  divine 

Had  been  the  Poet  Florentine? 

Shall  starry  Galileo  trail 

Initials  like  the  comet's  tail? 

What  proud  abbreviation  beats 

In  splendor  the  curt  name  of  Keats? 

How  choicelier  had  Horace  writ 

Could  he  have  sign'd  his  odes  D.  Litt  ? 

And  what  diploma,  pray,  invent 

For  Master  William  Shakespeare,  Gent.  ? 

[15] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


Commensals  of  the  Table  Round, 
Careless  they  sit  about  the  board 

With  bread  of  angels  whitely  spread, 
Churl,    Seneschal,    and    Knight    and 

Lord; 
Invisibly  the  best  is  crown'd: 

Where  Arthur  sits,  there  is  the  head. 

Ah!  wouldst  thou  yeoman  service  do 
In  that  Republic  where  the  great, 
Through  strength  in  large  endeavor 

spent, 

Achieve  the  Freedom  of  the  State, 
Put  childish  things  away, — pursue 

"The  things  that  are  more  excel 
lent." 

No  flowery  phraser  is  our  hero, 
Like  Seneca  (they  say)  to  Nero; 
Teaches  to  be  a  self -commander, 
As  Aristotle,  Alexander. 

[16] 


MANHOOD 


He  suckles  (for  the  teacher  good 
Begins  at  least  with  babyhood! ) 
With  milk  of  humankindness  Byron; 
And,  like  Thessalians  coach'd  by  Chiron 
(That  pedagogue  quadrupedantic), 
His  young  barbarians  grow  less  frantic, 
Their  college  yells  and  track  events 
Well  intersperst  with  wit  and  sense; 
While  football  stars,  those  padded  giants, 
To  letters  condescend,  and  science. 

Unbought,  unmortgaged,  unsubdued 
To  the  commercial  age's  mood, 
He  nourishes  ambition  higher 
Than  that  of  Carthage  and  of  Tyre; 
Nor  presbyter  nor  pontiff  he 
In  temple  of  Publicity; 
Withholds  from  king  of  street  and  pit 
The  tax  that  pays  the  hypocrite; 
Impracticable  to  refuse 
To  truck  and  trim  for  revenues; 
[17] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


And  setting  little  store  by  knowledge 
Of  arts  to  advertise  his  college. 

Seldom  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve 

He  wears:  not  careful  to  relieve 

That  organ  of  its  perilous  stuff 

By  cuppings,  innocent  enough, 

Of  frequent,  brief  communication 

To  Athenaeum  or  The  Nation, 

As  who  should  say,  "The  deuce  is  in't 

Unless  I  air  myself  in  print! " 

Leaves  unperturb'd  the  spirits  vext 

That  squeak  and    gibber    through    the 

text 

Shakespearean, — such  matters  nice 
Best  left  to  Furness,  Wright,  and  Dyce. 
Why  prod  our  precious  square  of  sense, 
Not  senselesse  of  the  bob,  from  thence 
To  shed  upon  confusion  still 
No  light,  but  darkness  visible? 
"Let  bends  adornings  stand,"  he  cries, 

[18] 


"THE   BRAN   OF  SCHOLARSHIP" 

"An  arm- gaunt  steed,  runaway es  eyes, 
To  his  owne  scandle, — be  it  so; 
Woo't  drinke  up  Esill? — Goodness,  no! 
Who  rashly  hawk  from  handsaw  plucks 
Gets  finger-bitten:  crux  is  crux." 

"Ah!  hold  not  to  the  hungry  lip 
For  bread  the  bran  of  scholarship, 
Nor  to  the  thirsty  spirit  thus 
Commend  the  cup  of  Tantalus, 
And  out  upon  those  doctors  who 
What  wiser  Shakespeare  does,  undo! 
*  Budge  doctors  of  the  stoic  fur, ' 
Who  with  their  paltry  glosses  blur 
The  authentic  writing  on  the  wall, 
The  soul's  fair  parchment  so  bescrawl 
With  futile  warrant,  fool's  behest, 
That  scripture  turns  to  palimpsest. 
And  indignation  fires  the  verse 
When     bungling     meddlers,    learning's 
curse, 

[19] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


Refashion  youth's  diviner  feature 
In  the  smug  image  of  the  teacher. " 
A  stronger  breath  was  in  that  strain, 
But  now  I  pluck  the  string  again, 
Recalling  Milton's  patience  scanty 
With    wolves    within    the    fold,  —  how 

Dante 

Turn'd  upside  down  the  pride  of  place 
Of  Clement  and  of  Boniface. 
Those  Pastors— 

"Stop! "  the  Goddess  cried, 

"Thy  wit  to  madness  is  allied! 

Why  shouldst  thou  fare  so  far  afield? 

Does  not  the  time  example  yield? 

The  elder  poets  why  invoke 

To  lift  our  spiritual  yoke? 

Sir  Philip  put  the  case  aright: 

'Fool,  look  within  thy  heart  and  write! ' 

And  wouldst  thou  be  a  satirist 

Of  prejudices  that  persist 

[20] 


DISCOMMODITY   OF  SATIRE 

In  education,  dying  hard, 

Presume  not  to  escape  unscarr'd. 

Shalt  see  the  friend  become  the  foe; 

Thy  fame  a  football,  to  and  fro 

Bandied;  no  longer  free  to  live 

The  scholar's  life  contemplative, 

Thou    must     exchange    for    rancorous 

strife 

The  sweet  amenities  of  life, 
And  in  the  arena  force  perforce 
Must  battle  amid  bawlings  hoarse; 
Perchance  beneath  calumnious  stain 
Must  die, — best  effort  spent  in  vain, 
For  when  was  ever  satire  found 
To  rail  the  seal  from  off  the  bond? 
Dost  thou  conceit  thee  to  be  steel'd 
To  bear  the  brunt  of  such  a  field? 
Friend,  let  me  whisper  to  thee  that 
Thou'rt  not  the  bard  to  bell  the  cat, 
For  none  has  rim'd  me  such  an  opus 
Since  Chaucer  stinted  of  Sir  Thopas: 

[21] 


THE   HAPPY   TEACHER 


False  cadences  and  meter  cramp, 
Allusion  smelling  of  the  lamp: 
Thy  Muse  should  be  a  stocking  blue! 
Now,  as  I  point  the  path,  pursue.'* 

Then  to  my  song  the  Goddess  lent 
Numbers  and  nobler  argument:  — 


[22 


n 

WHO  is  the  Happy  Teacher  one  would 

choose 
To  mould  the  plastic  mind? — began  the 

Muse. 
One  first,  to  speak  with  Bacon,  who,  a 

brave 

Iconoclast  of  idols  of  the  cave, 
Well  knows  the  mind's  insidious  perils, 

knows 

To  front  undauntedly  the  inward  foes; 
Who,  since  the  young  his  prime  attention 

claim, 
To    make    himself    mature    directs   his 

aim; 

WTien  most  his  commerce  is  with  chil 
dren,  then 

Efficient  most  among  his  fellow-men; 
Scornful  of  badges,  decorations,  toys 

[23] 


THE  HAPPY  TEACHER 


That  prove  men  oft  more  puerile  than 

boys; 

And  smiling  at  each  shibboleth  and  fad 
That  show  again  much  learning  maketh 

mad. 

Wide  as  his  commerce  with  his  fellows,  so 
World-wide  his   intercourse  with    those 

who  know, 
Sages  and  bards  of  many  lands:    these 

„     three 

For  choice, — Greece,  England,  Italy; 
The  calm  free  soul  of  Goethe;    and  in 

France 

Montaigne,  who  smiles  away  intolerance; 
Nor  schooling  mean  at  home  here  had  he 

won 
From  Franklin,  Hawthorne,   Whitman, 

Emerson. 
Happily  born  to  manners,  though  but 

rude, 

[24] 


"THE    HARVEST    OF    A    QUIET    EYE" 

Sincere,  he  nourishes  in  solitude 
Instincts  undreamt  of  in  our  social  state 
Which  civilizes  but  to  enervate. 
Deep  in  the  wilderness  he  steels  his  nerve 
The  wild-brook's  temper,   strenuous  to 

serve 

At  call.     Forsaking  academic  ease 
Reads  vagrantly  in  Nature's  libraries, 
A  wandering  scholar;  from  the  evening 

sky 

Reaping  "the  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye.'* 
Surprising  beauty  finds  an  open  door 
Into  his  senses,  custom-blunt  before; 
And  with   the  quicken 'd  vision  of  the 

brain, 

Genius  beholds  within  the  forest-fane 
Wing'd  acolytes  with  ministry  divine 
Light  UD  the  candelabra  of  the  pine. 

What  though  courageous,  yet  no  man  of 
blood, 

[25] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


He  murders  not  the  natives  of  the  wood, 
Begrudging  to  no  life  beneath  the  sun 
Its  harmless  day:  a  fowler  without  gun, 
A  fisher  innocent  of  rod  and  hook, 
Friends  with  the  citizens  of  bush   and 
brook. 

From  close  communion  with  the  forest 

clan 

Return'd,  he  better  serves  his  fellow-man; 
Imbues  the  young  whom  he  instructs  to 

bless, 

With  holy  pity,  tender  thoughtfulness: 
With  reverence  they  look  to  him,   and 

love, 
As  having  bread  to  eat  they  know  not  of. 

That  art  itself  is  nature,  Shakespeare,  who 
Deriv'd  his  sovran  art  from  Nature,  knew. 
And  so  by  Nature  tutor 'd  and  by  Art, 
Our  Master,  catholic  in  taste  and  heart, 

[26] 


"THE   ART   ITSELF   IS   NATURE" 

Admires  the  virtue  of  the  Greek  no  less 
Perchance,  than  Mediaeval  holiness; 
A  fugue  of  Bach,  the  forest  wind  or  bird, 
Sad  Beethoven,  and  singing  river,  heard 
With  equal  passion;  truth  and  beauty  he 
Sees  blent  in  exquisite  economy; 
Sees  oak  and  obelisk  and  painted  cliff 
All  historied  with  speaking  hieroglyph; 
Cell,  feeler,  hoof,  claw,  cunning  hand  en- 
scroll 
The  legend  beautiful  that  ends  in  soul. 

Such  readings  prompt  his  genius  to  stir 
Receptive  hearts,  a  large  interpreter 
Of  letters,  gathering  from  brae  and  brook 
Some  pregnant  comment  bearing  on  the 

book, — 

The  book,  notation  of  the  music  heard 
First  from  the  mother's  tender  lip,  the 

Word: 
The  word,  a  document  wherein  survives 

[27] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


The  record  of  a  myriad  myriad  lives; 
The  word,  the  true  foundation  of  the 

school, 

Logician's  and  philosopher's  sole  tool, 
The  matrix  of  the  idea,  which,  having 

not, 

We  fail  to  level  with  the  Hottentot: 
If  there  be  any  yet  conceited  wise 
In  their  own  generation,  who  despise 
The  word,  be  they  to  alien  tongue  con- 

fin'd, 
To  learn  the  weakness  of  the  wordless 

mind  I 

The  word,  the  pigment  of  the  poet's  art, 
The  word,  that  speaks  the  fulness  of  the 

heart, 

The  winged  word,  like  arrow  to  the  goal, 
Stinging  to  action  the  lethargic  soul, 
The  current  word,  the  idiom  of  the  street, 
The  coin  of  quick  exchange  with  all  we 

meet; 

[28] 


"WORDS,  WORDS,  WORDS" 

The  fitting  word,  high  culture's  final  test; 
The  pungent  word  of  graphic  tale  and 

jest, 
The  flavoring  lemon  in  the  punch   of 

wit, 
So  apt, — and  yet  so  easy  not  to  hit! 

But  why  should  we,  inheriting  the  tongue 

That  Lincoln  spake,  the  word  that  Shel 
ley  sung, 

The  word  that  out  of  Milton's  mintage 
sprang, 

Debase  the  coinage  with  the  dross  of 
slang, 

Whose  pinchbeck  lustre  all    is  second 
hand, — 

Not  coin  but  counters,  current  with  the 
band 

Of  slavish  spirits,  to  those  chains  resign'd 

That  cramp  the  imperial  stature  of  the 
mind! 

[29] 


THE   HAPPY   TEACHER 


I  sing  the  word  beginning  once   with 

God, 
Milestone  of  backward  road  from  man  to 

clod, 
The  word   "  whose   fountain  who   shall 

tell?"  and  whence 

Pours  Homer's  ample  flood  of  eloquence; 
The  ballad  word  which,  sung  by  crowder 

blind, 
Thrill'd  like  a  trumpet  noble  Sidney's 

mind; 

The  homely  word  of  Paston  Letters  old, 
Wherein    men   pray,    blaspheme,    make 

love,  and  scold, 
Limning  the  features,    as  in  sculpture 

rude, 

That  witness  to  our  common  brother 
hood; 
The  liquid  word  whose  music   Chaucer 

woke 
In  that  vernacular  of  English  folk; 

[30] 


I   SING  THE  WORD" 


The  living  word,  redeeming  still  from 

death 

"The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth": 
Wipe  but  the  dust  from  parchment  and 

from  roll, 
The  word  leaps  forth  to  life,  a  thing  of 

soul, 
Working  such  wonders  as,  when  rust  and 

damp 
Were  rubb'd  away,   the  Genius  of  the 

Lamp. 

Hail  then  the  word:  the  talisman,  the 
key, 

Divining  wand  and  open  sesame, 

Blood  pulsing  through  one  mental  lin 
eage, 

Seal  of  one  plastic  spirit's  heritage! 

The  word,  the  fossil  dead?  Nay,  these 
outlive 

Organic  life,  of  lease  so  fugitive: 

[31] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


And  as  from  fossil  teeth,  forgot  of  Time, 
For  Cuvier  woke  the  monsters  of  the 

prime, 
Awakes,   at  runic  HempPs  charm,  the 

tongue 
The  Etrurian  shades  forgot  when  Time 

was  young. 

Thus  Nature,  Wisdom,  Poetry  combine 
In  words  to  touch  the  soul    to   issues 

fine. 
And  as  perspective    art  the    landscape 

shows, 
The  Master's    pencil   round  the  lesson 

throws 

Color,  relief  of  distance,  atmosphere. 
His  virtuous    euphrasy  can  purge  and 

clear 

The  inner  vision  for  effect  and  cause; 
He     points     Imagination's     lens,     and 

draws 

[32] 


THE   PLAY-HOUSE 


Into  concernment  close  the  past,  the  far: 
Turn  but  the  glass, — the  near  becomes  a 

start 

The  customary  grows  miraculous, 
While  Plutarch's  heroes  eat  and  drink 

with  us. 

A  mighty  Play-House  is  the  Universe 
Wherein  we  all  our  little  parts  rehearse: 
For  footlights,  planets, — suns  the  chan 
deliers; 

The  overture,  the  music  of  the  spheres; 
The  curtain  is  the  all-concealing  night: 
It  rises,  and  the  scene  is  infinite; 
Actors,  spectators  we;  intrigues  unfold 
Significant;  we  in  the  Deed  behold 
A  lineage  unsubjected  to  the  tomb 
Stretch  out,  like  Banquo's,  to  the  crack 

of  doom; 

Incident,  burgeoning  from  incident, 
Into  the  vast  economy  is  blent; 

[33] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


The  villain  foils  the  hero,  and  the  theme 
Draws  to  a  climax;  is  the  Author's  scheme 
Comic  or  tragical?     We  can  but  know 
The  tragic  moment  of  our  present  woe, 
Dimly  forebode  some  dread  catastrophe; 
Till,  pity  and  terror  purging  us,  we  see 
Perchance  with  eye  prophetic;   hear  the 

chime 

Heralding  from  the  horologe  the  Time 
Foretold  by  seer  and  poet:  life  no  more 
An  aimless  struggle  in  the  dark;  no  war, 
No  fetters  but  for  selfishness;  with  awe 
Hear  proclamation  of  the  reign  of  Law, 
Deeming  we  faintly  hear  from  far  above 
The   golden  wedding-bells  of  Law  and 

Love. 

So  seeing,   hearing,  would  he  not,  our 

Youth, 
"Live    resolute    in    wholeness,    beauty, 

truth"? 

[34] 


KATHARSIS 


And  in  what  after-apathy  could  choose 
A  scene  less  haloed  with  ideal  hues? 
So  let  each  see  and  live,  in  view  of  All 
Until  the  Author  lets  the  curtain  fall! 


[35] 


m 

SHE  paus'd,  and  holding  forth  the  lyre, 
Bended  her  flashing  eye  on  mine. 
"Dear  Muse,  far  from  thee  to  require 
My  song  to  follow:  more  condign 
Were  punishment  on  me  for  this, 
Than  fell  on  blinded  Thamyris! " 
So  pray'd  I.     "When  thy  voice  outspake 
That  prophecy,  my  heart  was  stirr'd; 
Do  thou  again  the  chords  awake, — 
Let  mellower  music  now  be  heard. 
Against  the  night  that  glooms  the  Pole 
Auroral  banners  are  unfurl'd: 
Fixt  be  the  waverings, — my  soul 
Stares  blankly  on  the  changing  world. 
The  curtain  of  the  coming  age 
Be  parted  for  a  moment!     Purge 
The  inward  eye  to  view  a  stage 
Where  Love  shall  be  the  dramaturge. 

[36] 


Reeling  and  dizzy  here  below 

A  starless  sky,  we  look  above 

For  light  in  vain:  how  can  we  know 

That  Law  shall  ever  mate  with  Love? 

With  microscope  we  dimly  scan 

One  universe, — with  telescope 

The  other, — spying  out  for  man 

What  satisfying  grounds  of  hope? 

For  man  here,  like  the  burrowing  mole 

With  level  aims  and  inchlong  views, 

What  vista  of  the  mighty  whole 

May  be  without  the  heavenly  Muse? 

Tell,  is  the  Happy  Teacher  blind 

To  toil  for  human  betterment? 

For  Hope  what  warrant  may  he  find?" 

To  my  petition  gave  consent 
The  Goddess,  with  a  kindly  smile: 
And  though  the  rime  indignant  rang 
With  hoarse  invective  for  awhile, 
Yet  sweetlier  afterward  she  sang: 

[37] 


IV 

"O  BREASTS,  where  are  ye,  of  all  life  the 

source?" 

Thus,  with  poor  Faust,  while  Trade  pur 
sues  her  course, 

I  hear  the  unborn  generations  groan, 
Who,   crying  out  for  bread,    receive    a 

stone. 

No  longer  underneath  the  forest  thatch 
Flow  waters    (but  the  smoker   has  his 

match! ); 

A  sewer  in  the  shrunken  river's  bed 
Festers  (what  then?  the  hungry  press  is 

fed: 

I  venture  no  allusion,  speaking  thus, 
Comparison  would  be  malodorous), 
Or  else  the  torrent,  mocking  human  toil, 
Sweeps  to  the  sea  the  harvest  and  the 
soil. 

[38] 


TREASON   TO    POSTERITY 

Has  Earth  no  vengeance,  have  the  Heav 
ens  no  curse 
For    him   who   by  destruction   fills    his 

purse? 

Let  actuaries  calculate  the  worth 
Of  him  who,  dying,   poorer   leaves  the 

earth: 
Carve  the  hard  face,  that  coming  man 

may  see 

The  cruel  features  of  his  enemy! 
Hark!  by  the  noble  soul  distinctly  heard, 
Out  of  those  marble  lips  escapes  the  Word 
That  sacrifice  of  self  for  those  unborn 
Is  worship  which   the   gods  will   never 

scorn. 
Who  makes  the  world  his  oyster,  leaves 

it  dead 

And  done  with,  soon  as  ever  he  has  fed,  — 
Who  sucks  the  juice  and  chucks  away  the 

shell,— 

Should  find  no  fellowship  except  in  Hell 
[39] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


Where  Dante  found  the  traitors  winter 
ing,— 
Congenial  spirits  for  the  Lumber  King. 

Ofttimes  our  Master,  haunted  by  the 
theme 

Of  our  unnatural  imsocial  scheme, 

With  corded  brow  forwent  his  wonted 
cheer, 

Foreboding  Revolution  drawing  near: 

Cast  to  the  melting-pot  in  vision  saw 

The  time-worn  brazen  tablets  of  the  law; 

Religion's  reverend  landmarks  overborne; 

The  metes  and  bounds  of  mine  and  thine 
uptorn; 

Fai*-  arts  of  man's  long,  long  endeavor, 
melt 

In  one  black  hell-broth.  This,  he  deeply 
felt, 

Is  fault  of  those  who  throng  the  drawing- 
room 


'THE   MELTING-POT" 


Of  Empress  Grundy,   and  applaud  her 

doom 
On  all  who  dare  to  think;  the  fault  of 

those 

Who  batten  upon  superstition,  foes 
Of  all  experiment;  of  those  who  exalt 
Their  fortunes  upon  ruin'd  hopes;   the 

fault 
Of   great  industrial  captains,  skill' d  to 

roll 

Up  dividends  by  scaling  down  the  soul; 
Of  statesmen  strenuous  to  make  the  most 
Of  public  taste  for  moral  tea  and  toast; 
Of  Aarons  with  lawn  sleeves  wherein  to 

laugh 
When  bows  the  world  before  the  Golden 

Calf; 
Of  priests  who  point  the  penitent  rich  a 

road 
Around  the  Needle's  Eye,— the  poor  a 

code 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


Of  iron,  rubricated  Thou  Shalt  Not: 
These  fan  the  flame  beneath  the  melting- 
pot! 

Beyond  such  cataclysm,  by  faith  he  saw 
Freedom  arisen,  born  of  Inward  Law, — 
It  is  unlawful,  bard  and  prophet  say, 
That  he  who  knows,  should  other  law 

obey! 

An  age  draws  on  of  equal  chance  for  all, 
Knowledge  and  gentle  manners  general, 
When  Science  lengthens  life, — a  peaceful 

death 

The  lot  of  every  being  drawing  breath, — 
The  sting  of  death  gone  with  the  ghost  of 

sin; 

Few  courts  of  law,  because  the  law  within 
Prescribes  the  golden  rule  of  equal  rights, 
And  Freedom  quells  destructive  appe 
tites; 
In  wiser  mating  man  and  woman  blent 


A   GLIMPSE   OF  THE   FUTURE 

Harmonious  like  voice  and  instrument; 
Age  when  emancipated  womankind 
No  more  a  serpent  in  the  garden  find, 
No  angel  brandishing  a  sword  of  fire 
Above  the  Paradise  of  Heart's  Desire; 
When  common  purposes,  affection  high 
Alone  shall  consecrate  the  nuptial  tie; 
And  parenthood  shall  know  but  one  dis 
grace, — 

To  breed  a  child  not  bettering  the  race. 
Such  vision  through  the  gate  of  horn  he 

saw, 
Exulting  in  the  true  Utopia. 

"  What, "  some  will  ask,  "what  of  the  life 

to  come?" 
He,  like  the  kings  of  modern  thought  is 

dumb, 

Never  affirming  what  he  cannot  know, 
Still  less  denying,  for  he  hopes  it  so. 
To  theologic  warfare  calls  a  truce, — 


THE   HAPPY   TEACHER 


A  different  Bannockburn    demands   its 

Bruce, 

Blares  forth  to  us  another  trumpet-call; 
Pn  harder  quest  must  go  Sir  Percival, 
;By  consecration  to  the  race  attest 
He  guards  the  Holy  Grail  within  his 

breast. 

No  follower  and  no  flatterer  of  the  crowd, 
Not  foremost  in  the  synagogue  is  bow'd 
Our   Teacher,    giving    alms    unseen    of 

men, — 

Shouts  not  upon  the  housetop  his  Amen! 
Yet  when  Hosannah  to  the  Lord  on  High, 
With  voice  of  many  waters  people  cry, 
Than  he,  none  feels  the  common  impulse 

more: 
But,  praying,  goes  within,  and  shuts  the 

door. 

Deep  in  the  heart  he  keeps  a  Holy  Shrine: 
There  looks  he,  not  in  vain,  for  the  Di 
vine. 

[44] 


ENTHEOS 


As  one  who  owns  a  little  plot  of  ground, 
Owns  underneath  as  far  as  drill  can  sound, 
And  downward  howsoever  far  he  go, 
Comes  on  fresh  veins  upwelling  from  be 
low, 

While  farther  down,  conceal' d  from  hu 
man  sight, 

Are  springs  of  power  and  riches  infinite: 
Thus  underneath  our  little  minds  we  hold, 
Deep  under  deep,  resources  manifold, 
And  man  (all  men,  beneath  their  surface 

selves) 

Antaeus-like,  grows  stronger  as  he  delves; 
If  any  one  a  deeper  stratum  tap, 
We  term  him  Genius;   could  you  mine 

and  sap 
And  tunnel  till  the  deep  of  deeps  you 

trod,  — 
What  then?     You  syllable  sublimely, — 

God! 
Thence,  in  the  solitude,  an  effluence 

U5] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


Streams  up  from  fountains  far  beneath 

the  sense, 

Monitions,  from  the  roots  of  Being  sent, 
Of  issues  growing  to  Divine  Event, 
Impermanence  becoming  permanent. 


[46] 


SUCH  was  the  gospel,  the  good  news 

Prophetical  that  sang  the  Muse; 

While  yet  the  chords  were  sounding  on, 

I  lookt,  and  lo!  the  Muse  was  gone. 

So  left,  I  cannot  fitly  word 

The  mood  whereto  my  heart  was  stirred; 

For  who  am  I  that  I  take  up 

The  lyre  the  Heavenly  Muse  let  drop? 

No  harmony  could  I  command, — 

The  strings  would  snap  beneath  my  hand. 

Wanting  the  Muse, — these  verses  show 

it,— 

One  may  be  rimer,  never  Poet; 
Nor  do  the  wise  the  proverb  scorn 
That  poets  are  not  made,  but  born; 
Nor  yet  that  other  commonplace, 
How  bards  their  birthright  oft  disgrace! 

[47] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


To  voices  strange  the  Goddess  grants 
The  burden  of  her  utterance: 
Half -frenzied  voices,  Blake  or  Smart, 
Their  lucid  madness  passing  art; 
Weak  Coleridge  or  weak  Rousseau; 
Sick  Heine,  Leopardi,  Poe; 
Decadent  Villon  or  Verlaine; 
Witness  wild  Byron's  wondering  strain, 
"And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 
Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine?" 
Her  burden  trembling  in  his  voice, 
The  saddest  poet  may  rejoice; 
But  when  the  Muse  has  passed  along, 
The  sweetest  harp  is  left  unstrung. 

So  Peter,  James,  and  John  of  yore 
Saw  God  transfigured:  fishermen 
Poor,  humble,  had  they  been  before, 
And  after  seem'd  the  like  again; 
Beheld  no  more  the  raiment  bright 
That  in  such  hour  the  Master  wore, 

U8] 


PALINODE 


Heard  talking  with  him  on  the  height 

Moses,  Elijah,  nevermore: 

But  oh!  the  wonder  and  the  awe 

Of  what  that  once  they  heard  and  saw! 

Before  the  wonder  cease  to  thrill 
(Hark  to  the  cadence  sounding  still! ) 
Friends,  pardon,  while  in  minor  mode, 
The  rimer  hums  his  Palinode. 
Alas!  it  is  the  Poet's  shame 
That  what    he    dream'd,    he  ne'er  be 
came. 

"I  see,  approve  the  good,  the  worse 
I  follow, — "     So  the  famous  verse 
Doth  moralize  Medea's  woes; 
And  so  our  Portia,  but  in  prose, — 
"Were  it  as  easy  do  the  best 
As  know  it, — "  wherefore  quote  the  rest? 
A  modern  instance, — what  we  knew 
And  lov'd,  we  mostly  fail'd  to  do. 
A  truant,  I  in  Nature's  school 
[49] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


Made  no  exception  to  the  rule 
That  thought  no  master-key  to  act  is, 
Nor  precept  magnet  to  right  practise; 
Could  not  through  all  my  course  con 
trol 

The  needle  wavering  from  the  Pole; 
Unlike  the  Priest  who,  poets  say, 
"Allur'd  to  Heaven  and  led  the  way! " 

To  melancholy  thought  a  truce! 
The  Poet  finds  a  better  use 
In  Parable,  and  finer  grace. 
Recall  the  Athenian  torch-race, — 
The  race  of  the  lampadephore: 
The  start  was  from  the  fire-god's  door; 
The  goal,  Acropolis;  the  night 
Moonless;  the  runners  took  their  light 
From  the  Promethean  altar:  then 
Between  the  craning  files  of  men, 
Along  the  glittering  portico 
(But  softly,  softly  here,  because 

[50] 


LAMPADEPHORIA 


Of  certain  whiffs  and  gusty  flaws!  ), 
Through    street,    through    Agora   they 

go 

Racing,  intent  to  keep  the  torch 
Symbolic,  burning  to  the  last; 
And  while  the  foremost  nears  the  hill, 
The  hindmost,  not  the  least  in  skill, 
Is  striding  by  the  Painted  Porch, 
The  flame  defending  with  the  finger, 
And  curbs  himself,  appears  to  linger 
Reluctant,  lest  he  run  too  fast: 
For,  should  the  cresset,  flickering  dim, 
Be  puft  out  by  a  counterblast, 
Runner,  however  fleet  of  limb, 
Halts, — Nemesis  o'ertaking  him! 

A  band  of  seven,  avoiding  this, 
Run  up  the  steep  Acropolis, 
Steadily  mounting  high  and  higher; 
The  Propylaea  reflect  the  fire 
Until  the  polisht  statues  bright 

[51] 


THE   HAPPY  TEACHER 


Gleam   out  like    specters    through    the 

night. 
"Ah!     could    one    name   the   sevenfold 

crew! " 
"Look!     now    there    are    but    five    in 

view!" 

The  others?  ask  the  treacherous  wind! 
"Now  four, — now  three, — and  now  but 

two!" 

But  look  again!     One  far  behind 
Who     crept     by    wall,    and    nurst    his 

breath, 

Safeguarding  still  the  flame  from  death, 
Now    darts    from    hiding,     grasps    the 

chance, 

Gains  on  the  foremost, — who  (perchance 
Already  clutching  for  the  meed 
Which  not  so  lightly  Nike  grants! ) 
Was  flagging  when  supreme  the  need 
To  run,  to  run!  — and  with  a  burst 
Of  speed,  behold,  the  last,  now  first, 

[52] 


"—THAT'S   FOR  REMEMBRANCE" 

Flashes  along  with  lamp  not  dull, 

Enters  the  Gateway  beautiful, 

And  stands:  — to  him  award  the  crown. 

Moral?     What  boot  to  write  it  down? — 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift! 

To  him  who  guards  of  gifts  the  gift, 

The  fire,  the  fire  Promethean 

The  pitying  Titan  flung  to  man, 

The  sacred  torch,  the  mystic  sign 

Of  that  within  we  call  divine, 

Until  the  shining  goal  is  won, 

To  him  the  guerdon  be,  "Well  done! " 

Oh!  could  some  brave  lampadephore 
Of  tougher  sinew,  stouter  soul, 

Swift    flaming    forward     where    I 

swerv'd, 

Have  borne  my  cresset  to  the  goal, — 
Amid  the  paean's  wild  uproar 

What  praise  had  such  as  I  deserv'd? 

[58] 


THE   HAPPY   TEACHER 


Few  trace  the  record  dim  beneath 
The  statue  of  the  victor  set, 

Where  on  the  very  plinth  they  write 
The  name  of  one  men  best  forget, 
Who,  though  the  winner  of  no  wreath, 
Once  held  the  sacred  torch  alight. 

Explicit 


[54] 


YC   \FA23 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


